


Take My Hand (We'll Make It, I Swear)

by welpslytherin



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26076121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welpslytherin/pseuds/welpslytherin
Summary: Ian hadn't expected the violent closeted thug he'd been fucking to be his soulmate. But then again, he never expects most of what happens in the Gallagher household. (or)The soulmate AU in which everyone’s soulmark is different from each other, excluding that of your soulmate’s.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 23
Kudos: 78





	Take My Hand (We'll Make It, I Swear)

**Author's Note:**

> TW: There will be graphic depictions of rape. If you are sensitive to/triggered by this type of content, I advise you not to continue reading. 
> 
> \- This is my first long fic for Gallavich! I've been working on this on-and-off for a while now. 
> 
> \- As you've probably deducted from the tags, this fic is not beta-ed. You have been warned.
> 
> \- The title is taken from the song Living on a Prayer by Bon Jovi ;)
> 
> \- Enjoy!

_Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same._

_–_ Emily Bronte

* * *

They were at the Milkovich house when Ian first saw it.

It was a Wednesday, the day after he and Lip got placed into a group home. Mickey had invited him over for a “sleepover”, to which Ian felt giddier than he cared to admit. It seemed perfect: just the two of them in the house with a whole case of beer, Under Siege playing on the TV, and the coffee table laden with food that felt too greasy to be considered healthy, as the two boys passed a single cigarette back and forth. Ian was...giddy. The prospect of tasting Mickey on that filter thrilled Ian, the slight dampness on the cigarette enticing, even if he _could_ only identify the paper and nicotine.

He wasn’t sure if kissing was deemed okay now, didn’t want to take any chances, after the other boy had surprised him by pressing his lips firmly against his for the first time, if only for a second, right before they had raided Ned’s former residence. Granted, they hadn’t had a chance to talk about it yet, what with Mickey getting shot and Ian having to unbury a body out of their backyard, but it didn’t stop Ian from fantasizing about when it was going to (because it _was_ , it _had_ to) happen again.

They bitched over Van Damme for a while before lapsing into silence, and Ian just knew they were both thinking _What now?_ Ian was hot all over and his fingers itched to _touch._ The tension was so real and _alive_ he felt like he could cut it open. Let it bleed out.

 _You fuck anyone in there yet?_

They never had any trouble jumping into sex. But that was before Mickey had kissed him. Before, their boundaries had been clearly established: no kissing, no marking, and no dirty talk. Before, it had just been simple no-strings-attached fucking.

But Ian knew he was doing _something_ when he had suggested that he fucked Ned because _he isn’t afraid to kiss me_ . He’d wanted to believe Mickey cared. Wanted to believe that their routine fucking meant more to the older boy than, well, fucking. He hadn’t been expecting a declaration of love or anything but he was still more than pleased when the hard-ass Milkovich, who had once threatened to cut his fucking tongue out when Ian did so much as lean in, kissed _Ian_. 

To say that everything he thought he knew about Mickey was thrown into the wind would be an understatement. Ian couldn’t stop running the scene over and over in his head—the hard but hesitant press of Mickey’s lips, the heat emanating from their brief but close proximity, and the way his mouth was still tingling even after he scrambled out of the van—, never quite getting enough of it. As hasty as it had been, it sent sparks down Ian’s spine and shaken him up. Left him wanting more. He was running blindly now, uncertain of what the right move would be. 

Ian could feel in his periphery the sidelong glances Mickey was directing at him and they were _alone_ in the house and they’d finished all the pizza rolls and, to be honest, Ian hadn’t been paying attention to the movie since Chief Ryback entered the captain’s office. Ian dared to hope that his hopeless crush had the tiniest chance of being mutual and the thought alone made him lightheaded. 

_Fuck you, is what you were invited to._

It was after twenty agonizingly slow minutes that Ian decided to throw caution to the wind and go in for the kill, “So, uh, you ever gonna kiss me again or do I have to instigate another robbery?”

Mickey’s eyes shot to his and Ian swore the South Side thug almost looked _shy_. “Yeah?” He chuckled, scratching an eyebrow with his thumb. “Why don’t you c’mere and find out?”

Ian felt like he’d just won the lottery. 

Despite his heart jackhammering painfully at his throat and the irrefutable pull almost unbearable, he took his time shuffling closer. He stopped when their thighs pressed together and Mickey’s face was almost an inch apart. He was staring at Ian from under hooded lids and Ian thought he might actually pass out when Mickey dragged his tongue from the inside of his cheek to the seam of his bottom lip.

Ian closed the distance between their lips inch by inch, giving time for Mickey to pull away if he wanted to. 

He didn’t. 

His hand came up to cup Mickey’s jaw, caressing the smooth recently-shaved skin there with his thumb. A shiver traveled down his spine and something like a sweet ball of warmth unraveled in his chest. The tension was surreal and Ian was caught by surprise when Mickey closed the final inch, crashing their mouths together. 

Ian shuddered into Mickey’s mouth. The other boy swallowed it before sucking on Ian’s bottom lip. And then one of his hands came up to cling onto Ian’s bicep and he couldn’t help but move _closer_ . He growled low in his throat and swung a leg over Mickey’s lap, straddling him and catching a breath when their mouths disconnected for a second as their positions changed. Ian shoved his fingers into Mickey’s hair and ground down on him, opening his mouth with a ragged sigh when Mickey made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a _whine_. 

Ian pressed their chests together, trying to get as close to the other boy as possible, who seemed to be thinking the same thing because then he felt a hand curl around the back of Ian’s head that pulled him down to deepen the kiss. It was a heady sensation and somehow more intimate and earth-shattering than anything they’ve ever done and fuck, Ian wanted to drown in this feeling forever. 

“Fuck, Mick,” he gasped and the boy underneath him seemed to be even more breathless than Ian was. He was pleasantly surprised to see Mickey chasing his lips when he pulled away for a moment to get situated and couldn’t help the pleased grin from blooming on his face. 

“Don’t look so fucking smug,” Mickey muttered, but his lips twitched with a hint of a smirk. 

“No.” Ian smiled before leaning in to inhale Mickey’s scent on the warm expanse of skin between his neck and shoulder. “God, you’re so fucking hot.” 

The way Mickey’s breath hitched didn’t go unnoticed by Ian and he felt a little thrill at the sound as he continued to maul his neck. His hand trailed from Mickey’s hair down to his chest, fingers splayed, and lower until his fingers skated bare skin. 

“ _Fuck_.”

And then, hastily and with panting breaths, as though they couldn’t get closer fast enough—because they _couldn’t_ —they scrambled to pull Mickey’s tank top off, Ian’s heart stuttering at the knowledge of all the skin he knew was waiting for his touch. But then his eyes landed on a familiar splatter of dark ink etched into Mickey’s skin and his world stopped.

Because Mickey’s fucking soulmark was _right there_. On his chest of all places, directly above where his heart would be. 

It was beautiful. And it was identical to Ian’s.

Ian stared for long moments, blood pounding to a crescendo in his ears until Mickey finally caught on. “What?” When he realized what Ian had been looking at, he immediately pushed him off and covered up, realizing what he had accidentally revealed. His eyes sported a shade of panic and embarrassment as he sputtered and pulled on his shirt before schooling them into something he thought was menacing. “The _fuck_ are you looking at?”

Ian could do nothing but stammer, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it vibrating through the air and the corner of the coffee table digging into his back. His eyes skittered frantically around the room, unsure of where to land. “Nothing, I just—” 

“Forget it,” Mickey said then. When Ian looked up, he was frowning. “Just…forget it. It’s whatever, man.”

Ian nodded. Didn’t know whether to feel relieved that he wasn’t going to give him shit for violating his privacy or disappointed that Mickey was willing to drop this so quickly. He could barely form a coherent thought through all the fucking _pounding_. “Sorry.”

“It’s cool.” Mickey stood up. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m—uh, gonna go get more beer.”

Mickey went to the kitchen and puttered about while Ian sat there, dazed and shaken. He wanted to believe he had mistaken the beautiful black dove—the same one that graced his left thigh—he had seen on the other boy’s chest, he truly did. Just because he regularly wondered what it’d be like to date— _actually_ date—Mickey Milkovich shouldn’t suddenly mean they were soulmates.

You were born with your soulmark. 

It could be anything from an animal to a string of letters. Ian’s dove was actually the first animal among his siblings, Fiona donning a single dark rose and Lip a drawing of a key. Debbie’s was the word ‘perfect’, which Ian thought was incredibly cute. The second animal in the family was Carl’s mark, which was a beautiful phoenix splashed across one side of his back. Admittedly, it was _very_ badass and was fawned over by Carl to this day. 

They said touching your mate’s soulmark was the best feeling in the world. Besides Kev and V, Ian didn’t know anyone who had experienced this. He asked them about it sometimes, what had gone down after they had hooked up for the first time only to discover that they bore matching soulmarks. 

And it made sense. _They_ made sense. Everything about them—the way they seemed to know what the other was thinking, how they could practically predict the other’s actions, how they worked through their rough patches—fit together, like peanut butter and jelly, irreplaceable and perfect. 

Ian was a hopeless romantic. And it wasn’t unreasonable—being a closeted gay in the Southside, what with the natural terrors that came with it, tended to have that effect on people. It had Ian cling onto the mark for hope of finding love and when things grew rough, he rubbed the splotch of ink over smooth skin, basking in the knowledge that there was someone out there for him. Someone who would love and understand him for who he is, someone who supposedly is _perfect_ for him. 

And apparently _Mickey_ was that person. Ian didn’t know whether to pump his fists in the air or run all the way home and hide under the covers forever. He was like a little boy being handed a hundred dollar bill—having something so precious but not knowing what to do with it. 

He liked Mickey, of course he fucking did, but he wasn’t sure how the other boy would feel about being his soulmate. Mickey would reduce him to nothing but a warm mouth but then go on to kiss him like _that_ and fuck if it confused Ian more than ever. The deep attraction that they shared though, at least now there was an explanation.

And Ian had always known Mickey was different, not that he had fucked a lot of guys to begin with, but there was something about him that made his head turn, his eyes stray to every inch of the other boy’s physique, and linger for more than necessary.

Holy fuck, they were _soulmates_.

He and Mickey never talked about their soulmarks. The occasional banter and jabs at the dysfunctionality of their families, sure, but never something as personal as their soulmark. But then again, Ian had only assumed Mickey regarded this as a fling. Less than, even. A fuckbuddy he could run to whenever he felt frustrated. And the thought that he might still see Ian that way _hurt_.

Ian was snapped out of his thoughts when Mickey returned to the living room, empty handed and looking very awkward. “Turns out we’re dry as fuck,” he said, staring at Ian and all he could think about was the dove inked on his chest. 

“Okay.”

“You still wanna get on me or did some stupid Mark scare you away?” 

“Nah,” Ian muttered and got up. He wasn’t exactly sure what part of the question he was responding to. “So, uh, you got any extra pillows?”

Mickey’s face went blank with surprise, as though the idea of Ian sleeping out here alone hadn’t even crossed his mind. Ian filed this information away for future observation. 

The truth was that Ian would much rather return to the group home than make do on a couch while his _soulmate_ slept several feet away in another room. And maybe Mickey could sense the pleading to tell him otherwise because Ian was caught by surprise by what tumbled out of his lips, “You wanna fucking freeze to death? My bed has plenty of space.”

And just like that, Ian’s world righted itself again, his heart picking itself back up. Accelerated in competition to the desire to kiss him again. And it was ‘my _bed_ ’ and not ‘my _room_ ’ which made butterflies erupt in Ian’s stomach for the umpteenth time that day. Any other suggestion seemed ridiculous now.

He found himself answering, “Sure”. Mickey obviously wasn’t ready to talk about the Marks yet, and if Ian was being honest, neither was he. The initial shock of seeing Mickey’s dove slowly ebbed away as the rational part of his brain took more control. He decided he’d put this particular discussion off until he was sure what Mickey’s feelings were for him. 

Mickey returned a curt nod before swallowing and looking away, scratching the corner of his eye with his thumb.

They turned the TV off and cleaned up a bit, if only to busy themselves for a while and sort through their muddled thoughts, while Ian’s heart banged around in his chest, as though trying to break its way out. It was hard forming a coherent sentence with the thought of sleeping in the same bed with Mickey doing funny things to his nether regions.

Thankfully, Mickey seemed to be on the same wavelength because as soon as the door to his room shut behind them, he pulled on Ian’s belt loops before getting rid of his jeans. They tumbled onto the bed, bubbling with laughter and hot breaths, and Ian mentally scoffed at the anxiety he was feeling before. 

Mickey made short work of unbuckling his belt and Ian his own, both of them panting ragged breaths as they fell onto the bed. It was so easy to fall back into their rhythm. Before long, Ian had his shirt chucked to a corner, his boxers pooled at his knees, and his dick buried in Mickey’s asshole, while the other boy grunted and rocked back in the way that drove Ian to the brink of sanity.

It had always been dark in the stockroom of the Kash-N-Grab, stale and dingy. There was always too much stuff cluttering up their periphery with all the extra equipment and crates of expired beverages. And both of them were always in a rush to finish, anxiety and nerves lurking and throwing off their performance, afraid that a customer might walk in on them like Frank did the other time. 

It wasn’t like that this time. The bedroom was drenched in light and they have the fucking house to themselves. Mickey’s ass looked more gorgeous than ever despite the bullet wound etched on his flesh. Ian could make out every speck on Mickey’s neck as he leaned over him, breathing down the warm curve between his jaw and shoulder. Ian chanced a kiss there, driven by the adrenaline of his thrusts. He was so fucking hard already and leaking in a matter of seconds and he knew he wasn’t going to last long.

They came at the same time with Mickey shooting arcs of white across the mattress and Ian deep inside Mickey. Hazy from the glorious—because their sex always _was_ glorious—orgasm, Mickey had collapsed onto the bed before rolling over and chuckling. “Hot damn, Gallagher.” 

Ian followed suit and laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a grin plastered across his face. 

But it didn’t take long for his mind to wander and before he knew it, his fingers were itching to reach for his soulmark on his back, just to make sure it’s still there and is still the same dove Ian is used to seeing in the mirror. 

“Hey Mick,” Ian murmured, moments later. He felt apprehensive of the waters he was about to tread. “You awake?” 

The older boy grunted in response, his muscles on his back rippling as he tensed up visibly. “I am now.”

The question _Do you believe in soulmates?_ was lodged in his throat. Because while the dapple of ink was etched on everyone’s skin, some people chose to ignore the beautiful meaning behind them, something about wanting to decide their own destiny or some shit. Ian’s breath caught. _Is your soulmark a dove?_ The words rolled around in his mouth, but didn’t make their way out, his previous decision to keep his mouth shut getting pushed to the forefront of his mind. _Because mine is too_.

Instead, he forced himself to ask, “Do you know when your dad is coming back tomorrow?”

“Not until like five in the evening, man. Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Mickey exhaled deeply before relaxing and settling back into a rhythm of slumber. Ian longed to reach out, wrap his arms around the boy he wanted to believe was his soulmate. He didn’t, though, but he did concede to his heart a fraction by shifting closer to the other boy. Just a little bit.

* * *

As much as his former teachers and POs would’ve vehemently debated otherwise, Mickey wasn’t fucking stupid. Ian had seen his soulmark, that much he had deducted, but it had elicited a fucking reaction out of him. He had _recognized_ the dove and fuck if Mickey knew what to do with that information.

Call him a pussy for thinking it but he’d always liked the idea of finding his soulmate. He knew it wouldn’t be love at first sight or that he’d automatically get his happily ever after, what with the complications of being a Milkovich in tow, but the idea that there was someone waiting for him, somebody whose strengths and weaknesses complemented his own, a perfect match, thrilled him to the bone, kept him going. If only he’d be willing to look, to work for it. He didn’t want to give that up. Not yet.

He’d been off-guard last night, not thinking when he carelessly pulled off his tank top. He’d just been buzzed and so fucking _happy_ , having Ian beside him, laughing into his mouth and peppering him with kisses. He panicked when he caught Ian staring at his mark. It was all he could do not to tell the other boy to fuck off and retreat into his old violent self, despite his heart’s protests to just blurt out how he fucking felt.

Even so, he wound up practically begging for the redhead to stay with him for the night. He was relieved that they were able to fall back into their routine fucking but it barely appeased the tight knot of anxiety in Mickey’s chest. 

To both his utter horror and delight, the next morning found them pressed against each other, their limbs tangled with Ian’s arm thrown over Mickey’s stomach almost possessively, the action making something hot stir in his nether regions.

It was quiet, what with the house being void of Terry bitching about his latest drug run, but Mickey’s head was still pounding from the hangover. Involuntarily, before he could realize it, he curled into the younger boy’s embrace and drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Mickey should’ve known better than to take his guard off because an hour later, he woke up to a fucking _gun_ shot, no less. The first thing he registered was his father’s face leering at him, eyes burning with rage and mouth curling in disgust. There was no excuse for this, what their current situation looked like. He and Ian were fucking _spooning_ , for Christ’s sake. To say he was doomed would be an understatement of the fucking century. 

“Shit!” He yelled, waking up Ian who wasted no time scrambling out of bed, grabbing for any stray clothing as Terry continued to curse loudly at them, the gun waving around in his hand precariously.

“You sick piece of shit!” He boomed, releasing another bullet onto the ceiling, making dust and debris fly all over the room. “Mandy wasn’t enough for you?”

Before Mickey knew what was happening, Terry was on Ian, a loud crack resounding as his fist connected with the redhead’s face. Mickey’s heart dropped to his stomach and he saw red because how dare his shitbag of a father touch what was _his_. 

He jumped on his father, grabbing his neck from behind and pulling the motherfucker back with all of his weight. They were both yelling obscenities at each other, pent-up anger and pure hatred raging through Mickey’s veins. 

“Get the fuck off him!” He growled through gritted teeth as both of them toppled onto the bed. Then Terry was on him, throwing punch after punch, until Mickey tasted the blood streaking down his face, a coppery tang that translated into regret for all the things he’d never allow himself to do with Ian. For being the fucking coward that he was. His breath left him in a painful rush when Terry’s fist landed into his gut and Mickey choked over an inhale that won’t come. 

“No son of mine is going to be a goddamn AIDS monkey!” His father cursed and Mickey continued to be assaulted by shouted insults and inept, continuous punches. The same pain washed over him before something _harder_ , the pistol, was smashed on the side of his face, his temple exploding with agony. 

“No!” He heard Ian scream through the blood pounding in his head, the knot of anxiety in his stomach increasing tenfold, before the redhead prepared to pounce on his father. But then Mickey heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking and his blood ran cold. 

Many things became clear to Mickey when he saw the scene unfold before him. The first was that he was fucking terrified of his father. The second is that he would take the bullet for the other boy, however faggoty that thought would sound in his father’s head. He would do it in a heartbeat, a thousand times over, and the realization actually sent chills down his spine. The third is that he should’ve kissed him last night. 

“You better not move, fucking ass-digger,” Terry snarled, the pistol still with purpose in his hand. Ian seemed inert, arms frozen at their stance right before they were about to attack the older man. 

“Ian,” Mickey managed, pleading with his eyes not to do this. To let him take the fall. His head was killing him, it was a wonder he hadn’t passed out. 

“You the shut the fuck up.” Terry pulled a phone out of his pocket with his free hand, dialing aggressively into it before pressing it against his ear. “It’s Terry. Send over the Russian.” 

Mickey tried to catch his breath, squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling in rhythm. _In. Out. In. Out_.

“You made a big fucking mistake, boy,” his father barked, dragging out the word ‘big’ like it was going to have a stronger effect on Mickey or some shit. _In. Out. In. Out_.

“I made him do it,” he heard Ian say and _Fuck you, Ian_ because like hell he was going to take the blame for this. 

Luckily Terry got to him before Mickey could. “I told you to shut the fuck up!” The gunshot rang around them again and Mickey’s heart jumped as he cracked open his eyes. Ian was cowering against the wall and the dust falling around them indicated that the ceiling had once again been the victim of Terry’s wrath and Mickey had to bite back a sigh of relief at the reality that the bullet is not buried somewhere in Ian’s anatomy. _In. Out. In. Out_.

He wanted to fucking kill him. He wanted to shove a gun down the bastard’s throat and watch his spinal cord splatter across the wall. 

An hour or a minute—Mickey didn’t know—later, a skanky woman with too much makeup and too little fabric covering her body sauntered into the room. Her perfume was suffocating, sickly sweet and overpowering, making Mickey’s already pounding head dizzy with the strong fragrance. 

“She’s gonna fuck the faggot outta you, kid,” Terry told him before looking back at the whore and nodding his head. Her eyes lacked emotion and expression, way too calm and still, obviously been tailored to be that way. Mickey tried to school his face into a similar guise. 

“Ride him till he likes it, _suka_.” 

_No._ Please _, no_. 

“And you’re goddamn gonna watch,” he said to Ian as she climbed on top of him, letting his limp dick breach her body. 

He managed to keep his eyes on the woman for the first few seconds before they betrayed him and looked over to Ian and he instantly regretted it because he didn’t think he would ever forget the look on Ian’s face. It shattered his heart into a million pieces. 

A few moments of agony passed before Ian looked away, placing his hand on his face and Mickey might be wrong but he thought he saw tears brimming in the other boy’s eyes. Then the world around him slowed to a stop until all he could feel was the woman’s body stretched around him and the movements of her hips seeped into his own. 

He flipped her over, exerting as much energy he had left, and thrust himself into her like his life depended on it. And it did. 

She was watching him, Mickey could feel her stare on his face. But he couldn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he fixed his gaze at the wet spot of drool on the pillow above her, the spot where Ian had slept the night before. Mickey thought of his warm body pressed against his own and the tingling of his lips after he kissed him in that van. He thought of his hot breaths against his neck and his hand covering his own. He thought of red hair and broad shoulders until his dick stuttered back to life and he was pounding into the woman with controlled pants. 

_In. Out. In. Out_. 

* * *

If Ian had to pinpoint the moment he fell for Mickey Milkovich, he wouldn’t be able to, simply because love didn’t work that way. There was never one exact moment that stood out from the rest, one that made Ian realize that the hard-ass thug who took it up the ass so goddamn _good_ was someone he would fall head over heels for. Or someone he would come to know as his soulmate. 

Up until the incident with Mandy, Mickey was only a mop of shaggy dark hair amongst the tidal wave of nameless faces crowding the hallway. Ian might’ve heard a whisper of rumor about him dealing drugs under the bleachers, might’ve seen him once or twice when Lip wrote English papers for him, but he never felt anything remarkable that made his breath stop short. All he knew was to stay away from him unless you wanted a broken nose and a few cracked ribs, give or take. 

He could never have guessed that he’d end up feeling like this. Like the world would end if he didn’t make sure Mickey was okay. Like he’d fucking _explode_ with anxiety if he had to go one more minute alone and _not with_ him. 

His plans to find him, however, were promptly derailed when the morning found Fiona tasking him and Lip of notarizing a will in pursuit of gaining custody of the Gallagher siblings. But even through the noisiness of the L and Lip bitching about Fiona practically being their mother or some shit, Ian couldn’t drown out the little angry creature in his head that screamed at him to find Mickey. He needed to see him. His skin was practically itching for it. Because what happened the day before was fucked up on so many levels and damn it all to hell if Ian was going to pretend like nothing was wrong.

“I’m practically an adult. She doesn’t legally need to be my _babysitter_ , you know?” 

“What difference does it make? She’s been doing the job for years,” Ian joined the conversation (if you call the ranting from one party and the distracted hums of acknowledgement from the other a _conversation_ ), giving into the crisis at hand because thinking about Mickey was making everything _ache_. 

“You cool with it?” 

He thought of Frank, how much he hated him, how much he’d already fucked up their family. He had never felt like a father to Ian, in contrast to whatever the others might claim. He’d never felt that _connection_. “Whatever it takes,” he replied. “You?”

Lip shrugged, eyes darting around as he contemplated it. “As long as I don’t have to call her _‘Mom’_.”

“Guess who?” Mandy sidled up to them then, wrapping her arms around Lip’s waist from behind. A burst of hope wormed its way through Ian at the sight of a Milkovich, hanging onto the possibility that Mandy might know something about her brother. 

“Jimmy’s dad?” Lip joked. Ian let out a scoff, disregarding the shame that inched into his consciousness. 

“You seen Mickey around?” he asked, attempting to sound like he wasn’t half-paralyzed worrying about him. “He’s been missing. Owes me fifty bucks.” Lip flicked him a glance.

Mandy proved to be no help. And the mention of him getting pistol-whipped by Terry brought up unwelcome memories and made Ian sick to his stomach.

After they got their fake will notarized, Mandy and Lip left him to visit Carl and Liam, finally giving him some leeway to find Mickey. Ian went to the Milkovich house first, reasoning that even if the boy in question wasn’t there, he might at least be able to milk out some information from his brothers. 

Iggy Milkovich came in clutch and sent Ian in the right direction, seemingly confident that his brother would be able to stand his ground to a lanky redhead and let slip the abandoned building complex where all the gangsters gathered in the cover of the night. 

The faint gunshots resounding from the compound as soon as he was near confirmed that it was Mickey, no doubt, and when he finally got to him, he was panting a little but the sight of the other boy barely appeased the ball of dread in his chest. Mickey looked _terrible,_ like he was beaten up just this morning and again a few seconds ago. Ian caught a glance that was directed at him but quickly schooled back into a mask of indifference. 

He walked up to him, carefully choosing what he has to say, but maybe he was a fucking idiot because he decided to go for humor of all things: “So thanks to me, you’ve been pistol-whipped and shot in the ass.” 

Nothing.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Ian said, softening a bit. He crossed his arms and leaned against the graffiti-covered wall. He watched the older boy, his face bruised from the pistol and his eyes deliberately diverted from where Ian was standing. It made Ian want to strangle someone, preferably Terry. Squeeze until their eyes rolled into their head. 

Still nothing. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it. What happened.”

He ignored him. 

“Would you at least look at me?” Ian’s words rang through the air, raw and dripping with pain. Mickey detected it too, if the knee-jerk wince was anything to go by. It still didn’t stop him from firing off the next bullet. 

Ian felt like his heart was cracking open. He couldn’t stand doing nothing. He got fucking _raped,_ for fuck’s sake, and he understood why he wouldn’t want to confide in anyone right now, especially not to Ian, who had witnessed the entire debacle. But goddamn it, the thought of him leaving Mickey alone right now and going back to his suffocating hell of a house almost drove him insane. 

So he waited.

He sat there, staring at the frame of his soulmate as he shot bullet after bullet until Ian’s ears started to fill in the _bang_ when Mickey took a while to reload. Eventually though, the shadows in the building grew darker as afternoon bled into dusk. Ian didn’t want to count the number of bullets that Mickey spent on a fucking American Girl doll. 

When he finally did run out of metal to shoot, he took a swig out of the beer bottle and started to tuck the gun back into his jeans. Ian surged up from his position on the ground to stop the older boy from leaving.

“Mickey.” 

“Leave me the fuck alone,” he spat, but his voice cracked and his eyes betrayed the longing, the _pleading_ , for Ian to stay. Just like the night before everything went wrong. 

“I’m fucking sorry, alright? Please. _Please_ , just talk to me.”

“What’s there to fucking talk about?” Mickey snarled, walking faster, the anger practically radiating off of him.

“About what _happened_.”

“I fucked the queer outta me! That’s what happened.”

“Fuck, Mick.” Ian carded a hand through his hair because he was getting frustrated and distressed as hell. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

They were out of the building now, out on the courtyard, and it was getting dark pretty quick. They were merely silhouettes against the sunset now as Mickey kept trying to dodge his advances.

“Mickey, _please_.” Ian reached out to touch his arm. And that’s when Mickey punched him. Ian felt the pain before he registered what had happened. His whole body fell from the momentum and he clutched his sides from the impact of the descent. His jaw was exploding with pain. “Fuck.”

“You don’t fucking understand, Gallagher,” Mickey rasped then, his voice cracked from disuse and something else. His figure loomed over Ian and when he looked up he could see tears shimmering in the older boy’s eyes. “Not everyone gets to just blurt out how they fucking feel every minute.”

And Ian wanted to protest because they _can_. It’s just the two of them here, right now, and Ian wanted nothing more than to just hear what the other boy was thinking, what he felt about Ian. As much as he believed it himself, he needed to hear him say it. But he also realized he wasn’t being fair to Mickey, because they had never clearly established what they were. Ian had never told him what he felt either. Never let Mickey know what position he was in.

And that was why Ian confessed, “I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Come on, man. Don’t start with that shit.” Mickey shoved him but Ian secured his grip on his wrists, searched those blue eyes for some sort of permission because he needed him to _understand_. 

He thought he heard Mickey’s breath hitch and waited a beat before he continued, “I’ve never felt this with anyone else. You’re…different. I knew you were since we did it for the first time. And the times after that, I was still so drawn to you. I still am. And it’s not even about the sex. I… _fuck_. I think I love you.” 

Mickey’s breath definitely cut short this time and Ian stood up, his lip bleeding and face still aching like a son of a bitch. “I mean it, Mick. And fuck, you don’t even need to say it back or some shit. Hell, you don’t even need to feel the same way. I just _need_ you to know, I’m here for you, okay? I think…fuck, I _know_ what we have is worth fighting for. And I’m not gonna split just because your father’s too much of a self-absorbed psychotic homophobic prick who won’t let his own flesh and blood be happy.” He knew not to bring up their soulmarks, because he wanted— _needed_ —Mickey to know that he had a choice in this. “Because you deserve to be happy, you know? Despite whatever he might think or whatever you’re tricking yourself into thinking. I’m not…I’m not gonna let him do that to you, man.” 

Mickey kissed him then.

It was deep and desperate and just the confirmation Ian needed that the other boy felt the same way. Ian keened low in his throat and kissed him back, one hand coming up to cup his jaw while the other circled around his waist. Their hips slotted perfectly together as Ian pulled them flush together. Mickey’ hands were warm on his face as he tried to soothe the pain from where he had punched him moments ago. But the pain there was nothing compared to the fire growing and licking at his insides.

“Fuck.” Mickey gasped against Ian’s lips. “Want you.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded and they started undoing their belts. They fucked right there on the site that evening, with Mickey pressed against the wall of the building and Ian pounding him from behind, not caring about getting dust and dirt all over their clothes and skin. They needed each other then—the only way they both knew how—and _hell_ if Ian wasn’t going to give Mickey any damn thing he wanted.

They parted ways around midnight, a bittersweet feeling settling in Ian’s chest. Fiona was fast asleep on the couch when he got back and Ian tiptoed his way to his room. Lip wasn’t there though, and he suspected his older brother was out with his soulmate’s sister somewhere fucking. Wondered if _they_ were soulmates. He thought about his soulmark, wondering if he should tell Mickey about it, wondering how he would take it if he did. He loved him, that much was for sure, and he’d take whatever risk he’d have to to be with him. 

* * *

His entire mood, giddy from the confessions and great sex, soured the second Mickey stepped back into the house. Terry’s presence loomed in the oblong space, setting an almost ominous air to it. It felt like walking down a dark alley in the middle of the night, fully conscious of what dangers you’re suddenly exposed to but knowing that you’re unable to stop whatever was coming for you. 

Iggy was snoring on the couch, his shirt riding up to expose his stomach. His foot was thrown haphazardly across the coffee table. Mickey scrunched his face in annoyance. 

Then, Terry’s unmistakable sneer pierced the eerie silence, “Where the fuck have you been?” 

Mickey cringed, flinching in spite of himself. Every word from his father’s mouth was like salt onto his wound, which was still fresh, from yesterday. 

_Ride him till he likes it_.

“Out,” Mickey grumbled and tried to push his way past his father’s burly figure. 

“Don’t you dare disrespect me, boy,” Terry spat and shoved Mickey back against the wall. His head started aching again from the hard impact against the bricks. He didn’t dare say anything, looked into his father’s eyes with as much determination as he could muster. 

“Listen to me. _You_ are going to marry Svetlana. And if anyone asks, it’s because you love her and you knocked her up, got that?”

The _fuck_. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mickey blurted out, sizing himself up and glaring daggers into Terry, who wore a murderous expression. “I’m not marrying some dried-up old whore you imported from fucking Tochka!” 

His father slammed him back towards the linoleum wall again, hard enough that Mickey had to gulp for air. “ _You_ are going to pull the trigger on yourself if that’s what I fucking tell you to do!” He roared before scoffing in disgust. “So zip your cocksucking mouth and get prettied up. The wedding is on Wednesday.” 

Mickey panted out guttural breaths, reeling with the information he’d just recieved. He watched his father’s back as he retreated into his room. He wished he could kill him in his sleep. 

What if he just ran away? Elope or some shit? His father would track him down, for certain. He’d never let him be happy, not if it’s a guy that’s making him happy. 

So he went to Mandy’s room (he couldn’t sleep on his bed anymore). Crawled under the covers beside his sister, who was already suspiciously still. He knew she was awake, didn’t blame her after the racket his father had just caused, though he appreciated that she left him alone. 

He turned his back to her and stared at the wall, grimy with dirt and dust. He tried to focus on the edge of the wallpaper that was peeling off, away from the fact that he had tears soaking into his pillow.

* * *

When Ian stormed into his room, Lip was already there, a cigarette dangling from his lips as smoke swirled out the window. The brothers stared at each other for a minute before Lip broke the silence, “Hey.” 

Ian quirked both eyebrows before tossing his bag onto his bed. “Hey,” he rasped, the events of the night still eddying in his mind.

The two of them lapsed into silence after that but Ian could feel the way his brother wanted to say something. Ask what was on Ian’s mind. He could tell by the way he looked at Ian as he handed him a cigarette.

Ian was on his third smoke when the older boy finally caved. “You okay?”

He shrugged in response. Though he was happy that he finally made some sort of resemblance to a breakthrough with Mickey, he was still overwhelmingly apprehensive of what was to come. The night felt like the calm before a storm, and that unsettled him more than anything. 

“We got the body,” Lip said, and it took a moment for Ian to register that he was talking about their recent family complication, “almost barfed my insides out from the fucking smell. Debs came home _starving_. Said the old lady wasn’t feeding anyone. We got the court hearing tomorrow. Fiona is pretty confident she’ll be able to convince the judge…” Lip trailed off before narrowing his eyes at the lack of emotion evident on Ian’s face. “It’s not about that, is it?”

Ian snorted softly. Shook his head.

Silence stretched between them again as Lip waited expectantly for Ian to open up. Finally, because he also needed to say it out loud to actually accept it, Ian plucked his cigarette from between his lips. 

“Mickey’s my soulmate.”

Lip stared at him, blinked once, and Ian could practically see the gears in his brother’s head just stop for a second, before he responded, “No shit.” 

“Yeah,” Ian half-laughed half-scoffed. He couldn’t quite believe it either. “I still can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Yeah, man.” Lip huffed and then leaned forward, his elbows balancing on his knees. He blew out a swirl of smoke that billowed around his face for a second before fading into the darkness. “Does Mickey know?”

“No,” Ian sighed. “I gotta tell him though.” 

“Shit,” Lip said, the back of his head thumping against the window frame. “How do you think he’ll take it?”

“That’s the thing,” Ian replied, expression turning somber. Despite whatever had gone down between them tonight, he still didn’t know how the other boy was going to handle that news. “I have no fucking idea.”

Lip nodded, empathizing with Ian’s situation at hand. Another silence lapsed between them only for the older boy to break it again, “Is it worth it?” 

Ian chewed on his lip for a minute, although he already knew the answer. He felt like he needed to prolong this moment, stretch the suspense. “Yeah,” he said, blowing out a breath and watched the smoke blur out his brother’s complexion before dissolving into the air. 

They finished the rest of the pack in silence. Ian appreciated his older brother for that. He had to guess that it was around two in the morning when Lip finally said good night and climbed into the loft on the other side of their room. Ian followed suit moments later but laid awake in his bed, staring at the wall. Gradually, his eyelids began to droop and he found himself spending a restless night dreaming of dark hair and cobalt eyes and tattooed fingers tracing over his mark as a tide of bliss engulfed his whole being.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Kudos and comments are appreciated!
> 
> \- I'm about 3k into 7-8k of Part Two rn and everything has been planned out! My goal is to have it uploaded by the end of this year so we'll see how that goes ;)
> 
> \- Come hang out with me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/welpslytherin)!


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